Discoveries
by doctorcoffeeboy
Summary: Eventual Slash. Sorry non-lovers. The story of how John and Sherlock fianally work out they like each other. And of course, it all starts with Sherlock falling ill.Mostly fluff, for now. No idea how this will pan out. Latest chapter has been re-posted.
1. Chapter 1

A mobile beeped, showing a new message. The owner looked at it carelessly before realising what it meant, and grinning.

Sherlock jumped from the sofa for the first time in days, the sudden action from the Consulting Detective surprising the good Doctor.

"John! We have a case!" He called, shrugging into his coat faster than John had ever seen and looping his scarf round his neck, the thrill of getting a new case evident in his cold blue eyes. Not that John completely agreed that they were 'cold', but it was the only good explanation of the colour.

"Okay." John put down his paper, pulling his own coat over his beige Cable-knit sweater, glad he'd thought to keep on his shoes from his earlier food expedition.

Sherlock near pulled him out of the flat, and pushed him into a car, eager to get some cases solved and get out of the bored stupor he'd been forced into for the past 72 hours. John had taken his scull, his gun, and made him promise to stay away from recreational substances.

"So, who died and what do we know this time?" John asked casually, quietly thinking about how it's probably not a good thing to be able to ask such questions in the same tone that you ask your flatmate to explain the human thumb in the sink.

Actually, neither of those were really 'normal' things. John sighed; he really should start making rules. The thought was shunned quickly; Sherlock would probably just break the rules anyway.

"Well, boyfriend dead in flat, girlfriend out of town. There was a domestic argument with raised voices and contact in the form of pushing three days ago. Might be linked. But this is Anderson, so…no promises that's everything." Sherlock smirked at John, eyes shining in that scary way that only this sort of puzzle would create.

John smiled back, glad that Sherlock was at least out of the house and away from the couch. He'd not moved for a frighteningly long time, and John had begun to worry for his flatmates health.

The address was in Soho, not very far from Baker Street, and within minutes they were outside the house.

Sherlock did as usual, wandered around the garden for a little while, noticing the strange things no one else things of searching for.

John waited patiently, noticing how bored Sherlock looked when he came back. "Well, it's stupidly obvious, but I should go inside and check anyway."

He walked past John, into the house and waited for John to follow the orders even if he didn't and climb into those ridiculous blue suits and stupid white covers to go over shoes.

As soon as John was ready, Sherlock ran of through the house to the murder area.

John followed calmly, unsure why Sherlock always ran. The body wasn't going anywhere. It was dead. What was the point in rushing? Was it going to get up and walk away or something?

When he arrived, Sherlock was already there, looking at the body. He stood up as John approached, followed closely by Lestrade, who had been waiting outside the door.

"Domestic Murder. The girlfriend did it. Open and shut case. You know guys; you really should try and find better cases. This one was easy!"

"Sherlock." Lestrade rolled his eyes. "You do know we're not actually here just to keep you occupied? Someone is _dead_, actually dead, and you're just talking like it's a medium-hard Sudoku."

Sherlock looked at John next to him.

"Sudoku?"

"Never mind." John shook his head slightly, and Sherlock nodded, already deleting the subject.

"Well, he wasn't paying his half of the rent, and he was having an affair, the woman got angry and killed him last night before run of across the lawn in high heeled boots." Sherlock sounded bored as he explain. "You lot are really slacking." He turned on the spot, to leave the room, and John found himself vaguely transfixed by the way his coat swerved and splayed out in the movement, almost on it's own.

John came out of his strange trance and looked at Lestrade apologetically for his friend.

"Oh, don't worry. I'm used to it. Go on." Lestrade smiled, gesturing out of the door.

He watched John leave, and felt himself smirk.

Sooner or later these two would realise what they needed in their lives were right in front of their eyes.

He's seen the way John looked in awe at Sherlock when the consulting Detective was ranting out his deduction, and he's caught Sherlock staring at John for next to any reason.

John would simply yawn from not enough sleep, followed but a stretch, and Sherlock by the good doctors' actions.

That was, until he realised, and then he'd look at the floor or direct his attention to making a snide comment at Anderson.

Oh yes, Lestrade definitely knew that John and Sherlock were together, even if they hadn't noticed yet.

XxXxXxX

A/N: I know this didn't quite flow as easily as it should, but I promise the next one will! Abrupt ending, stupidly cheesy. Stupidly short. Sorry guys and gals! (Don't worry; I don't really talk like that.)

Obvious thanks to _OperaGoose_, _Glittery-excuse-for-a-fae_ and _Wallhaditcoming _(Sorry if you're names are wrong, I'm tired, it's early, I haven't drunk my coffee yet.) who got sneak previews via twitter.

And of course to _Pikeru's Angel _and _Toxicjade_. Just because.

PLEASE REVIEW


	2. Chapter 2

Since the case on the domestic murder, there had been non-stop cases for around a week now.

John hadn't gotten proper nights sleep because Sherlock kept dragging him round. It wasn't like he couldn't have stayed home and rested, but being with Sherlock and running across the rooftops of London or something was a perfect feeling, and John didn't want to miss anything.

That being said, he'd had more sleep than Sherlock, who was never still for more than two minutes any more. And that was only when John physically restrained him from moving around. And eating was just out of the window.

That was especially true now.

John was sat in his armchair, watching as Sherlock paced round the room, muttering to himself about the latest case and trying to work it out. John was pretty sure his observations had begun to border on extreme, and a slight amount of delirium may have set into the Consulting Detective.

Every now and then John noticed he'd had to close his eyes tightly for a few seconds or rub a hand across his face, and whenever he'd typed something he had to keep going back and trying to fix the grammar that was usually flawless. But fatigue was setting in, and his words were becoming a little out of normality.

"Sherlock?" He didn't answer, too wrapped in his own thoughts.

"Sherlock!"

"Hmm?" The consulting Detective was still looking at the floor, not really paying attention.

"You need to rest."

"No I don't. I'm fine."

"Sherlock, you've not properly rested for far too long, and I've not seen you properly eating in God knows how long. Please, as your Doctor and friend, please rest?"

"Not until I complete the case. Stop fussing John, I'm…fine."

Of course, as was Sods Law, that was when Sherlock's body realised that it was running on empty, and collapsed.

John cursed quietly and leapt forward to see if he was okay. The heart rate was okay, just a bit in shock from the sudden lack of needed energy.

John stood up slightly and stooped to lift up Sherlock into his arms. The man was surprisingly light, too light for the height of him.

He pulled the Unconscious Consulting Detective onto his couch and rushed upstairs as fast and quietly as he could and grabbing a cover from his own room and bringing it back down, covering Sherlock in it and sitting back.

John mildly noticed he'd never actually seen Sherlock sleep. His face became so calm, free of smart comments and a sharp sense of deep concentration.

In all truth, John could sort of see why Mycroft worried about Sherlock all the time. Aside from being a self confessed Sociopath, he was really so young, and so reliant on other people. If Mrs. Hudson wasn't looking after him, god knows what he'd do.

John smiled to himself. Sherlock pretended to be heartless and mean, but John knew there was something else.

Sherlock shifted slightly, expression troubled suddenly. John shifted closer, in case Sherlock was being de hydrated or something.

The problem was sorted quickly, as Sherlock's pale, slender hand curled round the edge of the cover, tugging it closer so he could bury his face in it and clutch a bundle of the cover in his hands as a child would do with a teddy bear.

John smiled again, leaning back. Sherlock was just seeking the comfort of his flatmates scent.

Sherlocks' phone lit up on the table next to where he was sleeping, suggesting a call about to happen. John picked it up as quietly as he could and rushed out of the room, answering it before Sherlock would wake up and answer it, therefore rejecting sleep.

"Hello?"

'_John? Where's Sherlock?'_ Lestrade asked down the line, obviously confused as to why the Detective hadn't answered his own mobile. _'And why are you speaking really quietly?'_

"Sherlock's asleep." John explained.

'_Oh, at last. How did you get him to do it?'_

"I didn't. His body did. Finally just keeled over."

'Well then, I see your point for not waking him. Tell him to call me when he wakes up for a case, yea? We've got a sudden build up. And he still didn't tell us who the last person was.'

"Oh, he was muttering something about the step sisters' fiancé?" John tried. "But then again, he also muttered something about a cheesecake in the shower, so I wouldn't take it too importantly. He started getting a little delirious." John apologised.

'Sisters Fiancé, of course. Tell him thanks. I'll text you when we catch him.'

They exchanged goodbyes, and John hung up, slipping Sherlock's phone into his pocket and going back into the living room.

"What did Lestrade say?" A quiet voice asked from the couch. John looked over, smiling at the bleary-eyed Sherlock, who was clearly fighting to keep his eyes open.

"He wants you to call him." Sherlock began to sit up, and John lurched forward, pushing Sherlock back down. "But only when you've rested."

Sherlock scowled and pouted a little. "But John…" John noted how petulant Sherlock became just after waking.

"No Sherlock. Rest."

Sherlock obliged grudgingly and relaxed back. "Does rest mean sleep?" He asked drowsily.

"Yes."

"Well then, I'm not resting."

"I'm staying here to watch over you like a child until you do." John sat on the armchair, watching Sherlock until he sighed and closed his eyes, resting them closed until he fell asleep.

John smiled, and let his own eyes rest shut, please at last to be able to rest.

A soft moan woke John about an hour later. He quickly looked across at Sherlock, and saw him shivering slightly, a look of concern on his face. John frowned, it was perfectly warm in the house.

He decided Sherlock may have gained some sort of illness, as his body had been robbed of its main needs and might have been forced to lower its guard.

John sat up and moved over to the couch, sitting on the space where Sherlock's legs had vacated in his attempt to keep warm by curling up. The best way to keep his friend warm was body heat, an inexhaustible source.

He reluctantly lifted Sherlock's completely unconscious form until he was rested against Johns' chest. It felt a little strange, having a man lean against him. But the sleeping conditions had been bad in the war, so this should be nothing.

Sherlock was still shaking slightly, and had a bit of a fever. It wouldn't be much, but John worked out he probably just needed rest, food, and fluids. And no cases, or the adrenaline would throw him of balance.

John carefully pulled the blanket over himself too, to keep in the heat, and slowly draped an arm round Sherlock's shoulders, surrounding him with Johns' own body heat.

He tried not to think what the self-confessed Sociopath would think of this when he woke, and settled for just making sure Sherlock was warm enough and not likely to get too cold, and let himself slip into sleep.

XxXxXxX

Mrs. Hudson knocked lightly on the door, stepping into the flat and looking around for it's inhabitants.

She smiled, seeing them both asleep on Sherlock's couch – which no one else was allowed on – with Sherlock leaning against John, one arm draped across him and clutching a bundle of Johns' jumper in his hand.

She knew it was going to happen sooner or later. No one ever got close to Sherlock, so John was obviously important to him.

XxXxXxXxXxX

**A/N: Um, SORRY! The original Chapter Two had a chunk missing, so this is the second version. Sorry everyone!**


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: This chapter has been re-posted because of some errors my sleep-addled brain didn't point out, but my back-up brain in the form of _Pikeru's Angel _did. Thanks mate!

XxXxXxX

Sherlock woke suddenly, something inside him telling him to wake up…for no reason. No danger, nothing. So why in hell had he woken up?

He sighed. He was shattered. Maybe John had been right…he should have rested. He scrubbed a hand across his face, noticing the roughness of stubble. '_At last'_, he thought. He'd not slept or anything properly for a week, so it was about time. Sighing again, Sherlock realised that meant he'd need to freshen up.

That was when Sherlock realised where he was laying.

Whatever it was, it was warm, comfortable, and moving. Breathing.

John.

Sherlock stopped breathing for a moment. He couldn't remember this happening, couldn't remember requesting it, or even wanting to… He noted one of his hands had gathered a handful of Johns' jumper, and had it in a loose grip. One of Johns' arms was wrapped round Sherlocks' shoulder, keeping him close and warm.

So Sherlock himself was warm, what with John's body heat merging with his own, and almost laying down. Even if John wasn't.

Now he'd stopped panicking and started to take this slowly, Sherlock realised from where his head was against doctor Watson's chest, he could hear Johns' heartbeat.

It was quiet, but strong, and comforting. Sherlock smiled. It was because of this muscle and its ever existant presence that Sherlock had John. He owed it one.

Sherlock closed his eyes again, trying not to think too much, in case he over analysed this and accidentally made something bad happen. He stayed as still as possible, but let his mind boot up.

Nothing like this had happened to him since…since he was very young. Mother was ill. She'd gotten better, but was still rather ill now. His Father had stayed with him all night to assure him everything would be fine…

Well, this situation was definitely nicer…and much better to wake up with.

'_Hold on…_' His mind suddenly shouted. '_You actually _like _the idea of waking up next to someone. A man? John?' _He scorned himself. _'John's not like that. And neither are you. You're a sociopath, remember.'_

Sherlock told his mind to do him a favour and shut up, and just fought his mind to be nice and quiet.

He must have nodded of again, because he was woken again by the sound of movement, but not the feel of it. Mrs. Hudson…or worse. No, definitely Mrs. Hudson, he recognised the perfume. Unless Mycroft had started wearing perfume.

He heard Mrs. Hudson sigh quietly, but it was a happy sound, not sad. She was happy about…them? Impossible, surely. It was as if she expected it…

Sherlock stopped that thought. He was just thinking irrationally. His mind felt slightly foggy, not like when he usually woke up. Something was wrong, but he couldn't tell what.

She sounded like she was moving through to the kitchen, making them breakfast, like she did when she was in a good mood. Mrs. Hudson was definitely a housekeeper when she wanted to be; she was probably tidying up now.

Sherlock smiled faintly as he heard the sound of something opening and a small gasp. She'd found the pickled heart.

There was movement beneath him as John woke up slowly, and then froze when he realised where he was. Sherlock decided to stay lying _very_ still.

"Oh, John dear, you're awake." Mrs. Hudson semi-whispered.

"Mmmn." John made a sound of agreement, if not a happy one. Still wishing he was asleep, probably. The sound created vibrations through his chest, and Sherlock smiled slightly – and accidentally – and the tingle it sent through his ear.

"Nice sleep?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"Yes, actually." John had settled for just keeping his voice low, which suited Sherlock fine. Whispering-John was weird. Then it was like John felt the need to explain the sleeping arrangements, because he quickly came up with some sort of reason. "Sherlock collapsed from exhaustion, and started to get a fever and shaking, so I had to keep him warm." He released the arm keeping a hold on Sherlocks' shoulders to gesture at the covers.

That explained a lot, Sherlock thought.

"Should we wake him?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"I think so, he needs to eat something soon. Really soon." John paused before gently shaking Sherlock.

Sherlock had decided he didn't want to wake up. He was very comfortable where he was, and John was warm. The rest of the world was cold…

"Sherlock…?" John shook a little more. "Come on, wake up." He didn't sound worried, just hesitant. He'd never even seen Sherlock sleep, how was he supposed to wake him?

Sherlock let out a noise that was sort of a moan of non-admittance.

John chuckled. "Sherlock, get up. You need to eat."

"M'fine here." Sherlock muttered, keeping his eyes closed, adjusting and tightening his hold on John's jumper, so he could get up and drag him.

"Sherlock, dear, you need to eat. It's your favourite…chocolate spread on toast."

Sherlock felt himself blush – a new emotion. That needed to be changed and deleted.

John was smiling as he spoke, Sherlock just knew it. "You like chocolate spread?"

"Yea…." Sherlock opened his eyes to look out of the safety of 'John' to scowl at Mrs. Hudson, who laughed.

"Right then, don't want it going cold." John was probably grinning now. He tried to move, found Sherlock was physically in the way, and had to prise his hand from the jumper to sit up and haul Sherlock to his feet.

XxXxXxX

**A/N: Apologies to **_**'AssassinOfRome' **_**for the previous slash-ma attack. And possibly this one. Apologies for any errors or just jack-ups. Turns out being like Sherlock and choosing not to sleep properly for a week or so actually ruins your immune system and launches illnesses at you. And it's 1am here…I'm tired. I should be sleeping.**

**Taa to the fab **_**OG**_**, **_**Fae Fae**_**, and **_**Wall Had It Coming**_**, and **_**Pikeru's Angel**_** as usual. PLEASE REVIEW! Even if it's just a smile! It'll make my day, I promise! And I always reply if you have an account and were signed in! **


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: I said in the Summary I would make Sherlock ill, well…this is where I get going on that fact. WARNING: Ill!Sherlock.

XxXxXxX

Sherlock sighed as he was hauled to his feet by John, and realised how cold the flat was without a little heater next to him.

The thoughts were thrown out of his head by a strange numbness that swept over Sherlocks' body, and a sort of blackness that slowly covered his vision, with a strange buzzing sensation in his head. Headrush. But knowing what it was didn't stop him being unable to see where he was going.

John looked round and noticed Sherlock wasn't moving, and his eyes seemed slightly unfocused. Realising what it was, he quickly shot out his hands to grab Sherlocks' shoulders and keep him steady until the blankness unclouded his eyes.

"Thanks John." Sherlock murmured, terrified to hear an almost raspy-ness to his voice. No, he wasn't being ill. He simply couldn't not on a case. It seemed John hadn't noticed so Sherlock just quietly went to the table to try and eat some chocolate on toast.

John sat opposite and placed two teas' in front of them.

"I think you shouldn't go out on any cases for a few days." John started.

"Why?" Sherlock retorted, glad his voice had pieced itself together for that.

"You're paler than you should be, you don't look too well, you just got major headrush, which doesn't happen if your healthy, and I don't remember you eating for a fair few days, or sleeping for that matter. You are going to rest." John had gone into doctor-mode.

"Ugh…Dull." Sherlock murmured, taking another bite. "Just for this ca-" His voice died out on him, cracking slightly, and Sherlock cut his request short, scowling at nothing in particular and keeping his mouth shut.

"Oh, and you're voice is going." John added jokingly. Sherlock raised an eyebrow sarcastically, but smirked anyway.

"Drink the tea." John gestured at the cup. "You're really dehydrated, we have to get fluids into you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes – not wanted to risk his voice humiliating him again. It was like it was breaking all over again. And a joy _that_ had been…

"So it's agreed? A day away from Scotland Yard?" John pressed and Sherlock sighed, agreeing, even if it was somewhat grudgingly.

Sherlock put down his toast, not hungry any more. The smell of one of Mrs. Hudson's full English breakfasts drifted up from her flat below.

Sherlock's face drained of all colour and he sudden ran out of the room and upstairs faster than John could blink. He heard the bathroom door slam shut and groaned quietly, letting his head sink to the table.

Sherlock had obviously been neglecting food so long that eating too much – or even a few mouthfuls, apparently – was such a shock to his system that he was actually sick of it.

Well, in that case, all John could do was try and help Sherlocks' body get used to eating again.

John cleared up the table, put the cups of tea in the sink after finishing his own, and closed the doors to the flat to get rid of the frankly mouth-watering smell.

He just turned to go and see if Sherlock was okay to see the Consulting Detective in the doorway, arms crossed, pale as ever with the beginnings of dark circles under his eyes and a slightly pissed of look on his face.

"John…" His voice didn't quite match his look, it was weaker. "I think I'm ill."

John smiled slightly. "I think so too. Come on." He gestured to the couch. "You're staying here. Shall we watch some crap telly?"

Sherlock smirked. "Is there a choice?"

"Well, QI-"

"Irrelevant knowledge John, remember?" Sherlock sat on the couch.

"-Or a few detective shows?" John smiled at the way Sherlocks' eyes lit up at the 'D' word.

"Which ones?"

"Well, we have DVDs of…" He looked over at the DVD shelf. Most of them were his own or Sherlocks' because he liked solving things early and shouting abuse at the TV. "…Mentalist. Psych." John heard Sherlock laugh slightly; they both knew that was good if you wanted to laugh. "NCIS, CSI: New York, CSI: Miami, Jonathan Creek, Dirk Gently…" He paused, smiling to himself as he invented the one he knew Sherlock completely disapproved of. "Monk?"

"John! We don't really have that, do we?" Sherlock tried calling, but it just came as a slightly louder than normal voice. "You know you're not allowed to watch that, it's too terrible." John smirked as Sherlock kept going. "I mean, really, an OCD detective? It's just stupid, and those titles…?" Sherlock trailed of as John started chuckling.

"You git." Sherlock laughed and threw the Union Jack pillow at him.

John laughed, catching the pillow and throwing it back. "So…Psych?" He continued.

"Yes. I fancy some mindless detective comedy. At least Shaun actually _looks_ at things." Sherlock muttered as John slipped in the DVD and went to sit by Sherlock on the couch. He'd try and make him eat later, but give his body time to get over the first attempt.

John pulled the cover over them both to keep Sherlock warm and get heat from himself. Sherlock didn't even question it and they both settles back for the show to begin.

XxXxXxX

**A/N: Not a lotta slash here, at all really. I'm sorry guys. PLEASE REVIEW!**


	5. Chapter 5

"Ready to try some food again?" John asked as Psych ended.

"No." Sherlock folded his arms over his chest and scowled at John.

"Sherlock, you won't get better unless you eat something."

"But I was sick last time. The thought of food itself is repelling."

John sighed quietly. "You've got to try Sherlock. Please. You'll never get better otherwise." He sat opposite him in the armchair.

Sherlock frowned. John never said please like that. "Alright." He agreed quietly. "But I want to stretch my legs first."

John nodded, giving his consent. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the fact that he even _needed_ consent, and stood up.

As he did so, he felt all the energy in his legs just vanish, and almost collapsed. John jumped forward and weaved his hands round Sherlock's waist, steadying and supporting him. Sherlock rested his hands on John's arms and centred himself to stand on his own, but he didn't let John go.

They both stayed where they were, half afraid to move, and Sherlock caught sight of himself in the mirror on the fireplace.

He was paler than ever, and looked really thin. Or maybe he always was and hadn't noticed? There was darkness under his eyes from more lack of sleep than was usual for him. In short, he really did not look well.

Then his eyes travelled down the mirror to John who still had his arms round Sherlock, and was now just leaning against him slightly to balance him out. Sherlock could feel John's body flush against his, and his own heart hammering, either from the closeness or the illness, or both.

Sherlock didn't do well with emotions. He was a sociopath for God's sake. His head was foggy and he didn't quite know what to do now.

"John…?" He murmured quietly, and felt his own heart rate increase – if that was even possible with it's current rate – as John turned his face up to Sherlock's, only centimetres away.

Wordlessly, Sherlock bent slightly until his lips were just above John's, closing his eyes and trying to measure out his breathing.

He paused, unsure of what to do, and John closed the gap, tentatively pressing their lips together.

There was a timid knock at the door, Mrs. Hudson announcing her presence.

Sherlock stepped backwards suddenly, looking a bit shocked and scared, tears blooming in his eyes at sensory overload. John frowned, trying to work out what was wrong. And what had happened.

Mrs. Hudson stepped in, looking at Sherlock, a question on her lips.

"I'm fine." Sherlock murmured, looking at the floor. "I just…" His face paled suddenly, and he turned on his heel, running upstairs.

"He's just…probably had another wave of…" John floundered. "Look, sorry Mrs. Hudson, I need to check if he's alright."

"Of course dear." Mrs. Hudson smiled kindly. "Just let me know if you need anything." She closed the door softly behind her and John instantly leapt into action, running up the flight of stairs to the Bathroom.

"Sherlock…Are you alright?"

"I'm _fine_!" Sherlock called back, but John could tell from the weakness of his words that he really wasn't. Then there was the retching afterword.

"Yea, that's a lie." John stated. "I'm coming in, okay?" 

"No! I'll be okay. Just give me a minute."

"Sherlock! Stop being so bloody stubborn. I'm your Doctor. Remember?"

There was silence on the other side. John smiled to himself faintly and tried the door. Unlocked. 

Obviously didn't have time to lock it.

John carefully opened the door to find Sherlock sat beside the toilet, leaning against the wall, eyes closed, breathing shallow.

"I don't get how this could be happening. I've had no drinks or food. There shouldn't be anything left."

"There isn't. You're running on empty now, so all your throwing up is stomach acid."

Sherlock nodded slightly.

"And the fact that you've not eaten or drank anything is why this problem started. I _need_ to make you eat something."

"I'm-"

"No your not. Do I have to get Mycroft?"

Sherlock's eyes shot open.

"No. Definitely not. I mean, he probably knows, but no. I'll…yea." He went to stand up, but another wave of nausea caused him to redirect to the basin again.

John moved forward, into the bathroom, and crouched behind Sherlock, carefully holding back his hair - which needed a cut by now, although Sherlock was reluctant to do so – and rubbing circles on his back soothingly.

"Done?" John asked when Sherlock stopped. The younger man nodded. "Right, brush your teeth and wash your face, I'll wait downstairs."

Sherlock didn't say anything, so John nodded to himself and left Sherlock to it.

As he waited downstairs, John wondered why he hadn't brought up the subject of that kiss. Sherlock had sort of initiated it, but John hadn't exactly tried to stop it.

That was a point. Would he have stopped anything happening? If they hadn't been interrupted, would he have continued kissing Sherlock?

Did he even have feelings for the man? Well, there was no denying his looks. He was definitely handsome, even beautiful in a unique, enigmatic way. But did that count as being attracted to him?

It would be easy to understand if he was. Sure, he could be incredibly annoying, and he was so, on many occasions, but there was also a charm to his words, his features. He could get you to do anything, if he asked right.

Yes. If he thought hard about it, he was indeed attracted to Sherlock Holmes. No doubt about it. But now posed the question, what should he do about it? If anything.

Well, he'd probably wait until Sherlock got better, he didn't want to mess up his already touchy balance in life.

As if he'd been called, Sherlock stepped into view. He was a little shaky but sat beside John on the couch with a straight back, trying to maintain some form of dignity.

Wordlessly, and somewhat awkwardly, John leant sideways to wrap his arms around Sherlock's too-thin torso, gently easing him back on the couch so he was relaxed. Bad though it was, John didn't want to move. He needed to, so he could convince Sherlock to eat something, but it was warm and comfortable here.

He almost jumped a mile when Sherlock's warm body kicked in and his arms looped round John's own body.

"Sherlock." John murmured when he remembered how to speak and that this wasn't odd. They'd slept like this, pretty much, after all.

"Mmh?" The hum rumbled through Sherlock's chest, sending shivers up John's spine.

"We need to get food in you." John replied bluntly. "I gotta get up."

"No you don't. I'm not hungry." He held John tighter, going so far as to rest his head on John's. John realised, as he felt the smirk on Sherlock's sharp face, that he was doing this on purpose to stop John getting up.

"Not gonna work." John mumbled, pushing himself up, inwardly trying to find a legitimate reason to go back.

Sherlock sighed, folding his arms over the warm space John had been at just a moment ago. "Fine. Make me sick. See if I care." John heard him mutter as he headed for the kitchen, trying to work out what he should start with. Nothing too solid.

Sherlock watched him work around his experiments, deciding suddenly that John himself was now an experiment. He couldn't understand why John was so... interesting. He'd never experienced thoughts like this before. Such as the impulse to suddenly go and hug John, kiss him, fall asleep with him every night.

Shaking his head minutely, he decided it was delirium from his illness.

XxXxXxX

**A/N: Hey. I'm really really really really really really really really really really really sorry _charliebrown1234_ and all other awfully patient readers. I know, I'm rubbish. I haven't touched this since April. But, if it's any excuse, I was writing a script that I gave to Mark Gatiss last month. He accepted it but hasn't gotten back to me yet -_-**

**If you'd be nice enough to review, I'd be grateful. Thank the aforementioned reviewer for giving me inspirational reviews to bring me back to the stories. That's all it takes, one review. **

**Oh, and I've no beta. I could get one, or be one for myself, but I'm just really eager to get this one up today. So sorry for spelling, I'm just in a rush.**

**-Doctorcoffeegirl.**


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